


Running the Show

by Poose



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Fingerfucking, Het, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How does Malcolm deal with his sexual needs when his wife is no longer around?"</p><p> </p><p>
  <a href="http://ttoi-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/726.html?thread=152534">For this prompt at the kinkmeme</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running the Show

"Yeah, Geoffrey, give my best to your mam. Tell her I'll be round on Tuesday for our date, and that I'll sort the Ribena if she supplies the anal lube."  
  
"Yes, all right, Malcolm," said the editor, trying - and failing - to avert the ensuing barrage of details about the precise state of his mother's rectum. Marianne smiled to herself as she rinsed out the coffee cups; Geoffrey was a cunt, he could do with winding up.   
  
"Bye," she shouted, over her shoulder.   
  
 _Lunch for hacks,_  he'd deemed it, when he rang her. As it stood, she was near due for one of Malcolm's calls. Every six weeks or thereabouts, he'd phone her up, inviting her to _go for a drink at the weekend._  
  
Toenails painted, bikini line wrangled into respectability, she'd take the tube to meet him at a restaurant with a bar. He would kiss her cheek, hold her chair, and order drinks for them both: old, unpronounceable Scotch for him, g &t with a lemon but no ice for her. They'd persuse the menu. Malcolm might have procured them theatre tickets, box seats, Royal this, National that.   
  
Marianne and Malcolm never made it past just one drink and a shared starter, though. That dinner and theatre date would be discussed, dismissed in favour of a quiet night in round Malcolm's with a bottle of high altitude Zinfandel and off-the-record conversation.   
  
That second fiction would be maintained through the first glass, after which point Malcolm would have his hand down her top and his tongue down her throat.   
  
Another wine bottle would be opened, a curry ordered from a nearby takeaway. The twenty-five minute delivery time was enough for him to get her off, once, with his hands and his bag of tricks. Then the door would buzz; Malcolm would jog to it, pay up some money, and fuck her on the couch.   
  
Only after which would they eat.  
  
Cups loaded, she now began on the plates, using the spray to rinse away the oily remnants of aubergine before stacking those in, sideways.   
  
On those nights, Marianne never had to do dishes. She hardly had to do much of anything. Malcolm was nearly twenty years her senior, but, she reasoned, that was merely more time to practise. And Malcolm fucked like he'd been paying extremely close attention for those years. And then some.    
  
Marianne's flatmate - who wouldn't have approved of Malcolm, anyways, if she had known - was always trying to get her to go out with her, saying she needed to  _cop off_  with a stranger at a party, a wine bar, a club. But there was little satisfaction to be had with a man procured under such circumstances. From the swerving, pissed snog in the back of a black cab to the perfunctory foreplay to the endlessly abysmal task of keeping a drunk man's cock hard while he tried to roll on a condom to the shitty inevitability of the fumbling sexual act itself; was it any wonder that Marianne chose to bide her time?    
  
Malcolm fucked her  _thoroughly,_  each and every time, so that the couple of weekend nights they'd spend together were more than enough to see her through the next dry spell.   
  
"You don't actually have to do that, I'll sort it," Malcolm said, as he came back into the kitchen, carrying a few wine glasses. They'd have to be washed by hand.    
  
"You cooked," she answered, now swishing the cutlery under the suds, "I can hardly claim to have the monopoly on domestic drudgery. Besides, it's only fair."   
  
"Shall I help you?" he asked, stepping up behind her.   
  
"It's basically done," she said, enjoying the proximity regardless.   
  
His hands slipped alongside hers in the water, as he whispered beneath her earlobe. 

"Are you not going to say sorry for that heap of shit you talked earlier?" he breathed.

"Which one would that be?"

"Funny fucking lass. No, come on, I'm fucking indespensible to this government. Place's probably come to a standstill without me. Peak time traffic in fucking Rio, right?"  

"You're a meglomaniac," she said, pushing her bottom against him, relishing the groan that welled up as she did so, "the government can function without you, I'm fairly fucking certain of it."   
  
"Can it?"   
  
Malcolm had a way with words: pleading, cajoling, coaxing, threatening. These she'd seen and heard, in all their forms. The man still reeked of editor; all temper and poorly tailored trousers; but, newsroom apoplexy aside, he could be quite persuasive.   
  
"You're not," he murmured, dragging a wet finger along the length of her forearm, "thinking of doing a  _piece_  about this, I hope."   
  
"You said off the record, Malcolm. I do have some bloody integrity."   
  
"Aye," he said, using that same finger to skirt across her chest, down her neck, along the lace tops of her hold-ups, between her thighs. Marianne's tongue was thick in her mouth as his fingers darted across her - nimble, light, never quite landing where they should. Jesus, but his hands were magical. He drew her knickers aside and Marianne's hand landed with a splash back in the water of the sink. Fuck, but that felt outlandishly perfect.   
  
"I would hate," he said -- casually, now, as if his finger slipping inside of her had escaped his attention -- "for this to be the end of our arrangement."

Marianne was barely listening. She knew Malcolm was speaking, but the words were mere noise against the effluvium of desire. 

"But if you want, and of course this is totally down to you - please don't let me influence you - but if you did want to write a nice, shiny, piece about Malcolm fucking Tucker," and here he added his middle finger to the one already sending shock waves down her spine, "expressing just how fucking vital I am to this government and," his thumb joined the mix, as he teased her with the blunt edge of his fingernail, "what a sack of come that useless tit Steve Fleming is, well..."  
  
"Malcolm," she shuddered, her wet hands moving to grasp the side of the sink as she rocked her pelvis against the heel of his hand.   
  
"Hm?" he said, to the sensitive back of her neck. "What do you think, Marianne, can you do that for me? And then I can do  _this,_ " and he crooked his fingers inside of her and  _holy fuck_ but that felt good, "as much as you like."   
  
Marianne worked for the  _Mail_ ; she'd started the game deficient in integrity. What was a little bit more lost this way, really?  
  
"All right," she half-choked, half-coughed, "just fucking  _do it_  already."   
  
There was a moment, and his smile touched the back of her neck. "Good lass. Now spread your fucking legs for me, yeah?" His fingers redoubled their pace, searching her insides for the spot that made her cry out his name, to promise him whatever the fuck he asked for, because in this moment, all heat, and red wine warmth and syrupy waves of pleasure which would not end here, but would continue - on the kitchen floor, and in the shower later; on top of Malcolm's bed and against his hallway walls, and maybe, come Sunday morning, atop the dining table - in this moment Marianne couldn't have refused him even if she'd wanted to.    
  
When her shaking quietened down, Malcolm withdrew his fingers from inside of her, and with those - still damp - turned her head and kissed her. 


End file.
